


The Saga of Albus Pricklemore

by calime



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Highlander Holiday Short Cuts Challenge, I Don't Even Know, Light Angst, M/M, also suddenly a hedgehog, canon - I hardly care to know ye, this fic doesn't take itself seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21795101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calime/pseuds/calime
Summary: ‘So,' said Amanda brightly, ‘I have the best  idea how to fix this little problem!'Joe put his head down on the table.‘Please don't tell me, ‘ he mumbled.Amanda told him.Or, some persons might be not entirely wise in their actions. Some people have solutions. Those two categories might or might not overlap. Also, there's a hedgehog.
Relationships: Duncan MacLeod & Amanda Darieux & Joe Dawson & Methos friendship, Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 30
Collections: Highlander Secret Santa (ShortCuts) 2019





	The Saga of Albus Pricklemore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dkwilliams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dkwilliams/gifts).



> Happy turning of the year, Diana Williams - I hope this silly thing will make you smile.  
> A thousand thank yous to my awesome betas, Adam, Cat and argentum_ls. Blame for everything that is wrong should be laid at my door.  
> Lastly, I would like to ~~extend my apologies to~~ acknowledge the various sources that ~~were kidnapped, abused and forced to ride this crack train to the fluff station~~ provided invaluable inspiration, including, but not limited to: Highlander fanon; Highlander canon (fic: _I am ... slightly loosely affiliated with the canon_ \- HL canon: _I have never met this fic in my life!_ ); [Sagas of the Icelanders](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sagas_of_Icelanders) ([ in the modern English translations](http://www.sagas.is/yfirlit.htm) that are far superior to the old Victorian ones), Iceland and Icelanders,[Gisli Sursson](http://www.hurstwic.org/library/heroes/text/gisli.htm) and the entire species of African pygmy hedgehogs.

_Some time, somewhere in Seacouver_

1.

Duncan MacLeod was having a good morning. It was warm in the bed, he was still half asleep and he had the best pillow. He also had an entirely pleasant, brand-new set of memories of various delightful carnal activities involving the person currently fulfilling the purpose of aforementioned pillow, and a sleepy buzz of anticipation regarding repeating at least some of those activities a bit later in the morning.

The pillow moved. Duncan tightened his grip and gave a protesting whine. The pillow chuckled. _Mmmm, nice vibrations._

'Mac, let go, my bladder is killing me! Just go back to sleep, I'll be right back.'

'Mmmhhh,' he acknowledged the whisper, rolled over and fell promptly back asleep in the early autumn morning darkness.

\-----------------

2.

Methos had been having an entirely good morning until his bladder insisted he had urgent business to take care of. The proposition was extremely unwelcome, because he'd had woken to definite, detailed plans to enjoy both the bed and the bedmate throughout a long lazy morning, providing the other party was amenable. And there was no reason to question that, he mused, reflecting back to the previous evening. A pity, in a way, that it'd taken them so long to finally stop dancing around each other and go from eyefucking to the real thing, but, well. There had been and most likely still would be issues, but they could now definitely say that compatibility in bedsport was not one of them.

'Mac, let go, my bladder is killing me! Just go back to sleep, I'll be right back,' he whispered, extricating himself from a sleepy Highland octopus who rolled over to snuggle into a pillow.

Chuckling, he tiptoed through the semidarkness, idly snagging his phone from the bedside table as he made his way to the bathroom.

Approximately six minutes later he was silently cursing all mornings, phones, shitty landlords, burst pipes and fate, while trying simultaneously to pull on his sweater, scribble words on a piece of paper and find his jeans.

Ten minutes later he tucked the note between the pages of a smallish leather-bound book on the bedside table - other things aside he really hoped Mac would enjoy reading that particular journal of Darius; it'd been hassle enough to get it for him, but then, he apparently was a sucker for someone 'asking nicely', wasn't he? – gave one last wistful glance at the bed and the figure making a good impression of a pupating caterpillar on it and slipped quietly out into the cold grey morning.

\-----------------

3.

Duncan had been having a good morning; that is, up until he woke the second time, squinting into the sunbeam shining in from the window, turned over and found the other side of the bed empty.

A quick exploration told him that Methos' coat was missing from the peg next to the door where he'd hung it the previous evening ('Mac, can you get me a coat hanger? That sword pocket in this one keeps pulling it in a really annoying way if I just hang it...').

The morning, despite the sunshine, didn't feel so good any more. Well, he should be used to Methos popping up and disappearing again with nary a warning, but he'd really thought... He squashed that thought before it could really take form.

He'd just been looking forward to a lazy post-coital (finally!) morning coffee with his ... friend (well, ups and downs, but they were friends, old friends, weren't they? and it's not as if Duncan hadn't had good friends who were also good bedfellows, before, right?) with whom he'd had a really enjoyable evening and night before, pre- and post-coital, he decided. He was a reasonable grown-up level-headed person, who could take some disappointment, even if Methos' morning after manners were testifiably atrocious, and he could be forgiving enough not to even mention it later when Methos inevitably called or showed up.

Three hours later, he picked up his phone and pressed to dial.

'The number you have called is currently unavailable, please call again later'.

Damn. Ok, he'd try later. Maybe.

Two hours and five 'the number is currently unavailable's later, he was pacing worriedly back and forth. Methos was probably fine and his phone just out of battery or... ( _or he has switched it off on purpose_ ...), he definitely isn't in _trouble_ somewhere; it's been really quiet and Joe would've let them know if anything was up. He definitely wasn't going to call Joe and bother him with this.

An hour later he called Joe.

\-----------------

4.

'... Adam? I think he prefers something like Benjamin, nowadays, which you should know, seeing as you two have been practically joined at the hip those last weeks ... yeah, yeah, I'm just kidding.'

'No, there hasn't been any _recorded activity._ Geez, Mac, you're really bad with trying to sound inconspicuous. I just spoke to him in the ungodly early hours of this morning when he called me asking whether I knew any local move&store services that would do emergency jobs. Someone who would respect his books and...'

\-----------------

5.

'... I told him, I'm a Watcher, not a damn information hotline at 6 a.m....'

Something unpleasant slithered down Duncan's throat and took up residence in his belly. He put the phone down for a moment and just breathed in.

Well. Methos was certainly entitled to redraw any boundaries he'd see fit. It was just .... rude. Yes. It was only rude and Duncan would definitely not let it bother him overmuch. He picked the phone up again.

'Joe,' he interjected, 'I was actually just calling to let you know that I need to fly back to Paris tomorrow. Something I forgot. Yes. No, no, no I know, you don't need to _drop everything and follow my stupid whims_ , I will most likely be back in a week or two. Just let someone in your little band know, and I'll pretend I don't see them skulking around. I will see you when I get back, take care of yourself.' 

He disconnected, then turned the phone off. It was not a stupid whim. He was definitely not running away to lick his wounds in peace. He just wanted to be somewhere that was not here, for a while.

He felt suddenly tired, but the idea of laying down in that bed was singularly unappealing. His glance fell on the little leatherbound book on the bedside table. Methos had been so delighted and smug, giving it to him last night, '...I'm sure you're going to enjoy reading all the superlatives he tacked to your name, Highlander,' he'd quipped.

He'd really thought they were getting somewhere ... good.

With a muffled curse, he stuffed the journal into a drawer, grabbed his laptop and went to look for last-minute flights to Paris.

\-----------------

6.

Methos was very proud of himself that he made it to the theatre lobby in time. Not a noteworthy event in itself, but after the day he'd had, he felt that it was a definite feat. At least he would have a pleasant evening in pleasant company to follow. And it seemed that Duncan wasn't here yet, so that gave him time to settle himself into not looking like a teenager who had run the whole way to meet his crush.

Fifteen minutes later he decided he was going to tease Duncan mercilessly for spending too long a time in front of the mirror primping, because it was definitely impolite to be late.

Five minutes to curtain-up. He dug his phone out of his pocket and frowned when it was off and refused to turn on. Of course he'd forgotten to charge the thrice-damned thing. Well, Duncan was just fashionably late (... _or maybe he's not coming..._ ), and that was really terribly rude, but as a good friend he would let this go.

He turned and elbowed his way through the throng moving towards the seating.

'Excuse me, I'm terribly sorry, but is there a phone I could use to call a friend?' He gave his best 'apologetic and charming' smile to the usher in the lobby. 'My phone died and it's a bit of an emergency...?'

Trust the theatre to be old-fashioned enough to have a landline, he thought, punching in the numbers (and congratulating himself on both being old-fashioned and with a sufficiently good memory for numbers).

'The number you have called is currently unavailable, please call again later'.

He bit his cheek. Was it possible that he'd misdialed? He tried again.

'The number you have called is currently unavailable, please call again later'.

There was probably a perfectly good explanation to all this. He definitely wasn't being stood up and the stupid dolt was likely gallivanting around playing slash, bounce and sizzle with some upstart challenger and _most definitely_ not laying headless in an alley somewhere.

Well, there was one surefire way to find out. He picked up the handset again and punched in Joe's private number.

\-----------------

7.

'...MacLeod? What am I, a glorified switchboard? Can't you two just call each other directly? No, nothing's happened, in fact he just called earlier and said he's heading to Paris, _again_. I swear this man's got the worst case of itchy feet, and I told him I'm not getting any younger; I can't keep running back and forth like that...'

So that's the way it was, then. Well, MacLeod was definitely entitled to get cold feet, itchy feet, the whole restless feet syndrome for all he cared. Methos huffed a breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

He was most definitely not going to be awkward and mopey about anything. He had five thousand years of experience to draw upon, so he would make sensible and mature decisions.

'Joe,' he interrupted, ' I was actually just calling to let you know that I reconsidered and I'm going to take that look at that manuscript the North Atlantic branch wanted authenticated on-site. Yes, I know what I said before, but I guess we all need to earn a living. My phone may be dead for good, by the way, and it's probably time to change the number anyway, so I won't be reachable for a little while. I will let you know later ... yes, yes, the email is still good. I'll let you know when I get back.'

He pointedly didn't think of anything while he walked back to the rental van where he'd stuffed his hastily-rescued belongings in the morning (all waterlogged apartments with less than optimal repair schedules be damned for all eternity).

Damn it.

He'd really thought they were getting somewhere ... good.

Well, he had a hotel room to find for the night, and travel arrangements to make to an admittedly cursed destination, but at least modern forms of conveyance to that destination were significantly improved from the level of being seasick on a rickety boat in company of Irish monks[1], and it was somewhere _not here_.

\-----------------

8.

Joe Dawson was not worried.

He was not an Immortal Central switchboard, nor was he a nanny to several at least conditionally adult - well, maybe not strictly humans, but they were as close to a human as they could be, well, if one ignored the whole immortality thing – persons? Persons, who were considerably older and matu... well, let's go with _experienced_ , yes, experienced, by far more than his humble self.

Joe Dawson didn't stick his nose into his friends' business. There was probably a perfectly mundane explanation to why said friends suddenly seemed to be using him for a glorified information hub and then storming off and away. Into different destinations. After three weeks where he'd not seen one without the other.

There was probably no reason to be worried anyway. It would definitely be nothing like the last time those two had had a, a, well, falling-out. They would manage themselves and their relationship, whatever it was, and any theoretical falling-outs, which probably definitely had not happened anyway, perfectly well without his input.

Joe Dawson didn't stick his nose into his friends business and hence he really would not ask help from someone who would only make the whole thing worse.

Sighing, Joe picked up the phone and called Amanda.

\-----------------

9.

‘So,' said Amanda brightly, ‘I have the best[2] idea how to fix this little problem!'

Joe put his head down on the table.

‘Please don't tell me, ‘ he mumbled.

Amanda told him.

\-----------------

_Some time later, somewhere in Paris_

10.

Experience had taught Duncan to be extremely suspicious of the following: adventures proposed by Amanda Darieux. Favours requested by Amanda Darieux. Favours bestowed by Amanda Darieux. Any and all goings-on, jobs, projects, plans, outings, picnics, party games and the like that involved Amanda Darieux. Also, said Amanda Darieux as a whole individual. And he definitely didn't have a soft spot a mile wide where Amanda Darieux was concerned.

That did not preclude Duncan MacLeod often getting caught up in any aforementioned activities, because contrary to any naysayers, he actually knew how to and liked to have fun. He also rather enjoyed Amanda having fun, which admittedly often involved convoluted shenanigans and at least a credible threat of bodily harm. Hence the suspicion.

Ultimately, suspicion had never kept him out of most of those shenanigans. And maybe he currently needed to have some fun. This is probably why he didn't say no immediately when Amanda swanned in and begged very prettily for his help. Not that saying no would've changed the outcome.

\-----------------

11.

Duncan stared at the tiny spiky ball that slowly uncurled to sniff his finger.

‘Is he sick? He looks far too wee and pale for a hedgehog,' he opined.

Amanda sighed.

‘No, he's a different species. He's an African pygmy hedgehog[3], and he's still young. And he is not sick; he's been examined inside and out and has a very official health certificate to prove it.'

‘And you want me to take this vermin...'

‘...he is not a vermin, Duncan, he has a pedigree and his name is Albus Pricklemore.'

‘...this Albus Pricklemore to Iceland for a month-long vacation.' Duncan was sure that none of this made any sense. Was it even supposed to? With Amanda, one never knew.

‘He's a Christmas gift. To a little girl who very much wants a pet hedgehog and who happens to be a relative of an old friend of mine, and also a Harry Potter fan.'

Duncan frowned. ‘Is Harry Potter another hedgehog?'

Amanda stared at him with barely concealed horror. ‘I sometimes really think you should read more books written within the past _century_ or so.' She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘You're trying to mess with me,' she accused.

Duncan tried – and failed spectacularly – to look innocent. ‘I know who Harry Potter is. I do not know anything about proper care of hedgehogs, though, especially wee sickly ones.'

Albus Pricklemore took another sniff of his finger, twitched, furrowed his brow, twisted his tiny head to the side and smacked his jaws, releasing a frothy stream of saliva[4]. Duncan jerked his hand back.

‘He's rabid, isn't he? Why are you trying to smuggle a rabid hedgehog into Iceland?'

‘He's not rabid. This is the thing they do when they like how something – or someone smells. He likes you, is all.'

‘Well, _I_ do not like him,' said Duncan warily.

\-----------------

12.

‘It's for four weeks, because Albus has to be in quarantine for this time, which means living in a designated place with a designated person taking care of him. It's not difficult, really, and I have everything arranged. I was going to go myself, but a ... project came up, a tender, if you will, that I won over a competitor and I really need to be present here to handle this, but the Albus thing was already put in motion, because he needs to be out of quarantine by Christmas and this is why I need you, so that little Gudrun Modasdottir wouldn't be disappointed.'

‘Some of it is definitely illegal, isn't it,' asked Duncan, because he was a reasonable man and knew that there had to be a catch somewhere.

‘Albus' import, while out of the ordinary and somewhat tricky due to the strict regulations, is perfectly legal, I assure you[5], and if you do not believe me, you can ask Joe about the whole matter Little Gudrun is, in fact, the niece of one of his local Watcher colleagues, and I would think that we all could do something nice for Joe sometimes, don't you agree?'

Amanda sounded a bit put upon, and Duncan noted that she hadn't actually said anything about the legality of her conflicting project. Well, with Amanda, it was safer not to ask about some things. Or not safer, but still. One tended not to ask. That didn't mean that he would do whatever she asked every time, like smuggling a rabid hedgehog into Iceland, for example. Maybe he had something better and more important to do.

‘I guess I can smuggle your rabid hedgehog into Iceland,' he said, ‘it's not that I have anything particularly better to do in the moment.'

It would probably be a bad idea, as usual, but it would make her happy, at least.

\-----------------

13.

‘It's a bit too last minute, I think, with the flight being in two days and all, I cannot really arrange you to fly with anything resembling a sword,' Amanda frowned down on her fingers flying over the keyboard, busily rearranging the travel documents to accommodate Duncan's current identification.

Duncan tried to imagine a reasonable story to take him through the customs carrying both a rather specialised pet import and a katana – this is my emotional support sword, sir, I need it to keep my head while I clean up hedgehog dung - and sighed. ‘No, I suppose you cannot.' The travel restrictions were really, really annoying if you had a need to keep a sharp pointy weapon handy.

‘But I can FedEx your Paris spare one to a contact over there and you can pick it up a few days after you arrive. And Magni Jonasson – that's one of Joe's – will be there to pick you up in the airport and you will keep to public places and, well, he has a hunting rifle, if needed. I don't think you really have anything to worry about. Dear old Gisli Sursson is about the only immortal around there and he doesn't often come down from the Westfjords, and he really really dislikes Quickenings. Well, he also doesn't like other immortals, but he likes his watchers; they're a somewhat incestuous bunch up there, very close-knit,' Amanda glanced up, ‘and anyway I've let him know that you're coming for a good cause. You'll probably never get close to him or any other immortal up there. You only have to worry about an extremely low-maintenance hedgehog and deciding how much sightseeing you want to do. They have amazing spas[6],' Amanda added wistfully.

Duncan really hoped she would turn out to be right. A rabid hedgehog didn't really sound low-maintenance to him, after all.

\-----------------

_Seacouver_

14.

‘Operation Hedgehog successfully initiated, out and over to you.'

Joe sighed, deleted the message and went to call Magni Jonasson. At least, he reflected, up there the local branch was not a stickler to the whole ‘do not interfere' rule and headquarters always turned a blind eye, well, frankly, sensibly, considering the rather specialized recruitment conditions up there. They were kind of an incestuous bunch, the Icelanders, to put it mildly.

\-----------------

_Somewhere in France_

15.

‘With reference to the tender submitted by your company previously, we do not regret to inform you that your company has not been selected for the provision of the services. Merchandise will be handled by an alternate vendor.

If you have any queries, please initiate contact only if willing to risk utter annihilation.

Thank you for taking part in the tendering exercise.‘

The one known as Cerebro[7] stared at the message.

Uppity bastards. No respect for the working man.

Alternate vendor. He had a reasonable suspicion about who that was, and he would not be taking this encroachment into his dominion lying down.

He would contact his sources and marshal his resources and hit back. Admittedly, his sources at the moment were scant and his resources were shabby (it was so difficult to find anyone with a proper attitude to work nowadays, and they all had unreasonable expectations regarding the remuneration). But at least one source was where it mattered, and he was good at hitting below the belt.

\-----------------

16.

‘.... and in conclusion, it is indeed plausible that subject A is employing subject DM in the capacity of impromptu conveyance of the merchandise in question. Regarding the local conditions in the destination (please refer back to the information above), I would caution you against deploying sustainable and recyclable assets in the retrieval attempt, unless those assets are also disposable.'

Cerebro sighed. At least the disposable part would not be a problem. One simply could not find any quality evil minions worth keeping nowadays, not even the immortal ones.

\-----------------

17.

Cerebro's electronically disguised voice floated down through the speakers.

‘You will be flown in a day before the target, using our usual commercial cargo shipping procedures. A car will be provided for you. The target is an immortal travelling from Keflavik Airport to Grindavik, in the company of a Watcher. Your task is to stop their car in a suitable point before that destination, incapacitate the target using the injection device provided, subdue the Watcher, render their car inoperable and take all the luggage and objects found in the car or on their persons back to the rendezvous point specified. The return transport for you and the acquired objects will be organised separately. The specific times, suggested ambush locations and photo of the target are in the folder in front of you, which as usual does not leave this room with you. Any questions?'

Cerebro squinted at the screen in front of him that showed a crappy camera angle of three heads bent over a table.

He really hoped there would be no questions.

‘I hate the ‘usual procedures', ‘grumbled one head. ‘It sucks being stuck in a container for hours and hours. I always get a kink in my neck.'

‘Oy, I know who that bloke is,' exclaimed the other, who had opened the dossier, ‘that's Duncan MacLeod, that is! Wow, that's like, you know, like a final boss fight!'

Cerebro gave an irritated electronically modulated cough.

‘Um, sorry, er ...medium level boss fight? Are you sure we cannot have swords? Oh god, does he have a sword, he does, doesn't he?'

Cerebro felt a headache threatening.

‘You will be shipped in as electronics. No, you will not have swords, nor will your target have one yet at the point, due to the customs regulations. There will be no light shows. Your mission is strictly only to incapacitate target and retrieve goods within the set time window. The toxin in the injection device should be enough to paralyse an immortal for at least 24 hours.'

‘We could call it the Sting! Or the Needle of Death! Cool!'

 _Cool_. Cerebro sighed again. What were they, permanently stuck in the 90's? This is what he had to work with. He took small consolation in the fact that he'd not told them they were scheduled to be shipped back under the designation of non-fillet frozen fish[8]. And, well, if they failed to return, then he didn't have to pay them.

\-----------------

_Somewhere over North Atlantic_

18.

Duncan MacLeod had of course seen hedgehogs before, but he couldn't say he'd paid particular attention to them. He wasn't sure why people'd consider them as pets – he figured that conceptually they'd be bound to be like Methos, prickly, inscrutable and making a mess of things (for someone else to clean up, definitely) while pursuing their own, indecipherable ends.

They definitely were not, he thought, glancing down into the snuggle sack where Albus Pricklemore was currently rooting around in the quest for the most comfortable sleeping position, cute, or adorable.

People were decidedly odd. The creature really had nothing much to recommend him. He settled more comfortably into his seat on the plane and smiled down at the little wet snout under the prickly brow. No, definitely not cute.

\-----------------

_Somewhere near Grindavik, Iceland_

19.

'No, no, no, Magni, no. Find someone else. Or he can get a rental car. I am not going,' Methos tried frantically.

'There isn't anyone else, I'm sorry, Ben. I'm stuck here for at least another hour and won't make it on time for the arrival. ' Magni Jonsson's voice turned cajoling. 'Please, Ben? You at least know how to drive here in this weather. Little Gudrun is asking every day whether we're sure she'll get her present at Christmas and there's been a fair amount of hassle getting that hedgehog here and I would hate to have to tell Gisli that her little kinswoman's present got damaged or whatnot, because we forced the guy to drive a crappy rental and he went off road or something.'

Methos sighed into the phone. 'Please do not bring Gisli into it. You know I hate it when you do that.'

Magni took it for the capitulation it was. 'Take the Watcher car; the keys are hanging by the door. There's a placard with his name on it in the car already, you know, there's often a crowd at the arrivals.'

Methos sighed again. 'Magni, I know what he looks like. He knows what I look like. You know that.'

'Well, it's just that I already made the placard, wouldn't want it to go to waste. Call me when you're on your way back!'

Methos ground his teeth together and disconnected the call. This was going to be really awkward.

\-----------------

20.

Duncan MacLeod was feeling a bit battered when he emerged into the arrivals hall in Keflavik Airport. The customs had been an hour of alternating between scrambling to locate an appropriate certificate or other from the sheaf he had been burdened with, and waiting patiently while the officials decided which one they wanted next. At least the hedgehog had not performed his rabid seizure routine while in there. Duncan still suspected that customs would frown on rabid hedgehogs.

He looked around, trying to locate someone who could be that Magni Jonasson ( _he's tall, with red beard and a grey woollen hat, you really can't miss him_ , Amanda had said. _Red hair, too, probably, but I don't think I've ever seen him without that hat; ...I think that maybe he was born with it_.) when he felt an immortal presence. A millisecond later he saw a very familiar face that definitely did not belong to Magni Jonasson.

This is why one should never trust Amanda, he thought grimly. This was going to be really awkward.

\-----------------

21.

This was really awkward.

Methos also thought that the silent treatment was getting to be a bit much. He imagined another half an hour spent in a car with a Towering Silent Highlander (TM), while the windshield wipers went back and forth, back and forth to brush away the snow falling out of darkness and that drove him to desperate measures.

He attempted small talk.

'So, the customs didn't give you any trouble with the little vermin in there?' he gestured vaguely towards the .... the pouch-like sack that Duncan was for some reason still wearing hanging on his chest. Like a damn marsupial.

Duncan turned his head and gave him a disdainful look. 'His name,' he said, 'is Albus Pricklemore.'

Oh, so they were in the disdainful look territory now, thought Methos sourly. He soldiered on gamely.

'Albus Pricklemore, oh that's ... kind of bland. Fitting, but bland. I suggested Buggered, but was voted down, you know. Something about not being age-appropriate, which, well, is blatantly untrue, because the kid has also read every single Pratchett book out there and... '

Duncan seemed to be on the verge of maybe, just maybe saying something and his disdainful look seemed a little less disdainful and inching a bit more towards baffled, so Methos explained, just in case, 'Buggered the Hedgehog? That'd've been perfect, you know, like the hedgehog song? But the hedgehog cannot be buggered at all...'

\-----------------

22.

Duncan had firmly planned on being the bigger man, so to say. Metaphorically, that is. Just quiet, civil, limit the interaction to the necessary, don't demand explanations, don't ... whatever.

That plan did, in fact, fail.

'I guess you would know, being the expert. In buggering off and all that. Slam, bam, thank you ma'm, I'm buggering off without so much as a note.' He clamped his jaw shut. That was _not_ going according the plan, he thought.

Next to him, Methos was doing a stunned fish impression. Or maybe he was having a seizure. Then he found his voice.

' _Me?!?_ I ... what the hell, you have a lot of gall saying that, mister _I-enjoy-standing-my-dates-up-with-no-warning-and-faffling-off-to-Paris!'_

\-----------------

23.

'So. Um,' Methos said finally. He glanced at Duncan.

'Mhmmh,' answered Duncan – oh, that was eloquent indeed, but, well, at least he was smiling.

Methos decided that as the undoubtedly older and more mature of the two, he could be the one to first admit his mistakes. That'd be giving a good example and all.

'Well,' he said. 'It seems, uh, that we've perhaps ... both been somewhat remiss in communication and jumping to immature conclusions. But I still cannot believe you never read my note. I put it _between the book on your nightstand._ Who manages to ...'

A warm hand covered his mouth.

'Methos. We have both been utter idiots.' Duncan was smiling. He had a really pretty smile, Methos thought dazedly. He would've maybe disputed the insult to his intelligence, but the smile was nice. He didn't want it to go away. He still licked the hand on his mouth in retaliation. One wouldn't want to appear too soft.

Duncan snatched his hand back and chuckled.

'Down, boy,' he said. 'You can wait until we get there. You have full four weeks to lick me wherever you please,' he floundered a bit, glancing up at Methos, and continued a bit hesitantly, 'seeing how I'm the designated rabid hedgehog keeper for the duration and all, um, if you want to….' He trailed off.

Methos decided he didn't like that hesitancy at all. 'Yes,' he said a bit too loudly. 'Want. Yes.' He rallied himself. 'Just keep the rabid hedgehog out of the bed, please,' he tried for mildly acerbic and failed spectacularly.

It didn't matter. He was really looking forward to the upcoming four weeks. And maybe longer.

That, of course, was the moment when an immortal presence suddenly washed over them both and the car hit something with a sickening *thump*.

\-----------------

24.

It had all been going swimmingly.

The car with the marks in it had swerved to the roadside after hitting Bob, who had managed to lie down on the road in the correct place and in front of the right car ( _this time._ ).

The Watcher and the Highlander guy had both come out of the car to look at Bob, and it had all gone on smoothly, really, like clockwork – gunning the car idling just out of the range of the presence, getting there and out of the car before the marks could really catch on to anything, Tom grabbing Duncan MacLeod (Duncan MacLeod! they were never going to hear the end of that from Tom whenever he got drunk, he'd wager!) and pressing the injector against his neck, he himself yanking the Watcher into a chokehold, Bob starting to revive _just in fucking time_ , they were good, they were awesome, they were going to make _fucking history_...

It had all been going swimmingly, Rob thought desperately.

And then it had all gone spectacularly wrong. One moment, they were samurais on top of their game, everything running like a well-oiled .... well-oiled whatsit, and then the next moment, he was wheezing down in the snow, trying to swallow his balls back down and not.breathe.for.a.moment, Tom was faintly twitching down on the road with the fucking needle of death thingummy sticking out of his neck and the fucking Watcher, who also had an immortal presence (what.the.fuck. the level of shitty information in this organization was a fucking disgrace.) was stalking towards Bob - who'd only just managed to sit up - like some kind of jungle cat. With a baseball bat.

Rob gave a little desperate whine and ran.

\-----------------

25.

'Fuck,' said Methos. 'The third one got away, didn't he?'

He didn't wait for an answer, already fumbling for his phone.

'Who are you calling?' Duncan asked, prodding Thing number one with the toe of his boot and then squatting to gingerly remove the weird injector device from his neck.

'Magni. The damn Watchers have to do the cleanup, anyway. And now he's going to sic Gisli on the runaway, dammit,' Methos remarked sourly.

'There's duct tape in the trunk. Better tie them up before they revive,' he directed.

'What's with this Gisli thing?' Duncan asked. 'Will he be making trouble or...'

'Mmm, no, not really. I just really don't like Gisli.'

Duncan eyed him warily. 'Don't like as in mortal enemy, insane ex or ...'

'No, nothing like that,' Methos cut him off impatiently. 'We just have a standing disagreement about some literature[9]. The man is in the wrong, by the way. But he's an Icelander. They take their literature very seriously. '

\-----------------

26.

'Well,' said Magni practically, 'we'll wait until Gisli gets the third one and then we'll ship them out. Standard procedure.'

'Standard procedure...?' Duncan mouthed to Methos.

'Mortuary shipping. In coffins. Temporarily deadened, of course.' Duncan stared. 'There will be appropriate ... release arranged on the other end,' Methos assured.

'And, err, this has become the _standard procedure_ because ...'

Magni, who had been busily talking into his phone, gave him an amused look from under his woollen hat. 'Gisli really doesn't like Quickenings,' he said, 'but he likes other immortals even less.' He smiled.

Duncan felt a bit discomfited by that smile.

'Oh, no, no,' said Magni. 'Gisli is very fond of his kin, and good people helping his young kinswoman to acquire a much wished-for pet will be perfectly safe. For the duration of their stay.'

Duncan searched around for a safe response to that and settled on '...kin?'

'Don't get him started on the genealogy lecture, please,' said Methos, grabbing Duncan and steering him towards the car.

'Ah,' said Magni, 'you see, Snorri the Godi, who was Gisli's sister's son ...'[10]

\-----------------

27.

Magni poked his head through the door and coughed delicately.

Methos glared, but decided to stay put. Duncan hadn't paused in kneading his neck and shoulders in the most awesome massage Methos felt he'd ever had the fortune to receive and all the damn nosy Watchers could ogle to their heart's content.

Magni seemed undeterred by the glare. Sometimes Methos missed the old days when his glare had actually had more effect on people.

'Gisli called,' he said, 'and asked to give you a message. He said thank you for conveying his little kinswoman's gift safely and that you will be made most welcome and will lack nothing during your stay when you are providing your kind good care to the little animal. And he also said that you can consider the hunt and capture of your escaped quarry as a honeymoon gift to you, though it is an entirely odd season for a newlywed time, but then the sheep also have the mating season around now[11], so perhaps it's entirely expected that an _Írinn_ and a _Skotmaður_ would also follow their suit...'

Methos threw a pillow at him, but the damn snake managed to dodge it and escape through the door, cackling. 'For the thousandth time, tell Gisli to stop calling me an Irishman[12],' he yelled after Magni. Damn the snowmad watchers and immortals here, both.

'Does he _ever_ take that hat off?' asked Duncan.

\-----------------

28.

Duncan MacLeod was having a good morning. It was warm in the bed, he was still half asleep and he had the best pillow. He also had an entirely pleasant set of memories of various delightful carnal activities involving the person currently fulfilling the purpose of aforementioned pillow, and a sleepy buzz of anticipation regarding repeating at least some of those activities a bit later in the morning.

The pillow moved and dislodged him, rolling over and somehow managing to take all the blankets with him.

Duncan sighed. He knew from experience that getting the blankets back would be a difficult, if not impossible task. He yawned, sitting up to peer into a plastic cage next to the bed. A spiky half-curled ball was tucked in a fleece hideaway. Duncan poked it gently with a finger, just in case. The ball wobbled and curled up tighter.

He chuckled and turned back to the blankets that were now in a tight roll with just a little bit of spiky-looking dark hair sticking out from the top. He poked at the tuft of hair with his finger, somewhat more forcefully than with the hedgehog.

The blanket roll grumbled.

Duncan poked again. 'A hedgehog cannot be buggered at all,' he whispered.

A sleepy Methos emerged partly from the top of the blanket cocoon. 'Wha'?' he said.

'I said, a hedgehog cannot be buggered at all,' repeated Duncan. 'You look very much like a hedgehog, when you're hogging all the blankets like that,' he teased.

'Hmmmm,' hummed Methos, executing a sinuous maneuver that somehow left him free of all the blankets, staring up at Duncan with a little smirk. 'Then if that saying is true, you should consider yourself most fortunate that I am not, in fact, a hedgehog.'

Duncan looked at Methos wriggling on the bed, striped in the sunbeams falling from the window and considered himself fortunate indeed.

\-----------------

FIN

[1] Travel conditions have indeed improved greatly since [Voyage of St. Brendan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brendan) and as time tempers memories, Methos can concede that maybe it was a bit unkind to equate Iceland with Hell.

[2] Amanda’s solutions might be extremely convoluted, but they’re still the best.

[3] [They’re](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domesticated_hedgehog) [adorable](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ab6JuT3iXJg).

[4] I urge you to look up [hedgehogs’ self-anointing behaviour :)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CQGXuu0uZ9M)

[5] It’s been also [done before](https://icelandmonitor.mbl.is/news/culture_and_living/2017/11/13/bernie_the_first_hedgehog_in_iceland/).

[6] They [do.](https://guidetoiceland.is/best-of-iceland/blue-lagoon-the-ultimate-guide)

[7] He thought it sounded better than Sergey. That probably said a lot about him.

[8] He would argue that that _was_ one of the largest export groups from Iceland. It was just expedient.

[9] Difference of opinion over which is the superior tale – _[Gisla saga](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G%C3%ADsla_saga) _or _[Egils saga](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Egil%27s_Saga)_. I’m sorry, Methos, but you’re wrong and Gisli is right - the saga of Gísli Súrsson is better.

[10] [Snorri the Godi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Snorri_Go%C3%B0i) had had many children, and played a part in many a saga, as Duncan could not avoid learning.

[11] They [do](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Icelandic_sheep).

[12] You keep company with Irishmen, you qualify as an Irishman, is Gisli’s impeccable logic.


End file.
